


sacrament

by YouAreMyDesign



Series: holy [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Blasphemy, Confessional, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Masturbation, Murder, Murder Kink, Priest Kink, Priest Will Graham, Religion Kink, Religious Guilt, Scent Kink, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 19:59:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "God put me on this path for a reason," he says, his voice soft and tight. "Perhaps it was to meet you. To save you."





	sacrament

"There are many paths this life takes us, and it's our job as servants to our Heavenly Father, to remain open and accessible to Him, so that we can follow whatever path He wants us to tread."

Will's eyes sweep out around the congregation, noting the familiar faces – a few new ones. The expecting mother is not here, but her husband is, and keeps checking his phone. Perhaps she's at home, resting, nursing her new baby. Will has always made sure to keep his church open to any and everyone, but there are social graces to consider.

At the back of the church, a man stands, alone. He catches Will's eye, because there is plenty of room for him to sit, but he doesn't. Hands in his pockets, impeccably dressed, he regards Will with a fond, wide smile, and lifts his chin when their eyes meet.

Will clears his throat, swallowing, and continues; "Before I joined the Church, I thought I was supposed to protect and serve through law enforcement. I was certain, for a long time, that it's what I was meant to do with my life. But God showed me the error of my ways, and I realized that being around so much violence wasn't good for me. God showed me that. And so I chose to give my life another way, in a way that doesn't hurt anyone, including myself."

He smiles as he sees some nods amongst the crowd – it's a small flock, today, given that it's Saturday evening Mass, and not one of the larger ones where people submit to the Holy day of obligation.

"Keep yourself open to God's love, and let yourself serve Him, and you will find peace," he finishes, and goes to back to his chair, flocked on either side by an altar server, and they both stand as Will folds his hands. His eyes see the man again, and he swallows, a shiver running down his spine as the man's head tilts, and his smile grows sharp, and he walks away, towards the room with the Confessional booth.

"Let us stand for the Profession of Faith."

 

 

Will sighs, shrugging off the stole from around his neck, folding it and placing it in the cupboard within his antechamber. He wants to simply disappear, knowing what – or, more accurately, who – waits for him outside, but he must go and tend to his flock, and that means all of them.

He leaves the room, running a hand through his hair, and goes to the room with the Confessional booth. Inside, there is only one, and no line has formed outside the door – it's Saturday night. The only person who comes to Confession on Saturday night is that man.

Will enters his side, pulling the door closed, and sits. He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and pushes the little slide at eye level to the side. There is a crosshatch within, protecting plain view, but Will can see the man's stern, regal face, his sharp cheekbones, the angle of his nose and the jut of plush lips, which are stretched wide in a smile. With shared air between them, Will can smell his cologne, a scent unlike anything Will has encountered anywhere else – a deep, earthy musk, tinged with iron and wax and paper.

He clears his throat.

"Forgive me Father," the man's voice purrs, that accent Will can't quite identify beyond Eastern European, and Will closes his eyes, tips his head back, shivering at the sound of it; "I have sinned, greatly."

Will licks his lips, unable to stop the fissure of heat as it passes down him, from his neck, settling heavy in his stomach. This is not the first time this man has come to Confession and Will knows it won't be his last – he likes confessing to Will, because if there is one thing Will cannot hide, it's his reactions to it.

"Tell me your sins," he murmurs.

The man lets out a soft, pleased sound. Breathes in deeply and Will blushes, unable to stop himself thinking that the man can smell his arousal, the heat simmering under his skin. "I killed another man," he murmurs. "He was a sinner, too, using his position of power to take advantage of young girls."

Will's upper lip twitches, shows his teeth. When this man tells his tales, his crimes, it doesn't feel like sin. It feels righteous.

"What did you do to him?" he breathes.

"I castrated him," the man replies. "He was abusing the gifts God gave him, it seemed a shame to keep such rotten flesh attached. I removed it, like a tumor." Will swallows, lashes fluttering, his head resting against the dark wood behind him as, without his permission, or perhaps ignoring the choice entirely, his hand presses between his thighs, slides up, bunching his robes until there is a solid swell of cloth between his legs.

"Then," the man continues, still in that same lovely purr, "I cut out his tongue, so he'd stop pleading for his life. I find the bleating of sheep grows very tiresome, very quickly." He pauses, and Will swallows, squeezing on the knot of cloth between his thighs, hips rolling, seeking pressure. "Do you ever get tired of your little lambs, Father?"

"No," Will breathes. Lies; "Never."

The man hums, like he knows Will is lying. "Your Homily today was very moving," he murmurs, and Will lifts his chin, grits his teeth, his other hand pressing on his stomach and sinking down. "But there's a flaw in your reasoning: people still get hurt, whether you're there to catch the people that do it, or not. Even now, you sit in my presence and listen to what I've done, and you are helpless to do anything about it."

Will knows that. He knows, and he aches, his cock twitching and swelling further as the memories caress him like a lover, whispering to him in the man's voice all the things he's done. The murders, beautiful and graphic, the torture, the reaping.

"God put me on this path for a reason," he says, his voice soft and tight. "Perhaps it was to meet you. To save you."

The man laughs, low and throaty, and his head turns, and Will knows he can't see Will through the screen, but his gaze burns like fire nonetheless. "Oh," he says, quietly. "Is that what you're doing, behind that wall? _Saving_ me?"

Will winces, but can't stop himself reaching beneath his robes, squeezing his cock through his slacks. He tugs on his button-down shirt, the collar around his neck feeling far too tight as he sucks in a breath, and palms himself, skin to skin.

"I don't think so," the man whispers. "I don't think you want to save me, Will." And the sound of his name is more damning than 'Father', intimate and coy like the brush of a hand in the darkness. Will whimpers, swallowing it back, but he knows the man hears him. He listens, strung-out, as the man breathes in raggedly, tasting the air. "All that preaching and purity, and what does it cover? Nothing. Not to me."

Will swallows. "Do you have anything else to confess?" he asks, desperately trying to regain control, but he can't. His cock leaks heavy onto his wrist, staining his skin, and he tightens his grip at the base when the man laughs.

"No," he murmurs. "I have also been plagued with very impure thoughts. Thoughts that, in quiet moments, I seek physical satisfaction for." He pauses, and, smiling, adds; "Self-pleasure is a sin for your God, isn't it?"

Will's cheeks flush with shame, and he doesn't answer.

"I think of him constantly," the man adds, and Will closes his eyes, clenches them tight, grits his teeth as his hips lift, seeking more pressure from his hand. "He's beautiful, and tries to be Holy, but there is darkness in him. I feel it, calling out to me."

"You should -." Will stops, stammers, shuddering as his thighs tense and pull together, rubbing the knot of clothing against the base of his cock. "You should turn away from sin, separate yourself from temptation."

"Oh, but Father, he's so _beautiful_ ," the man breathes. Will hears a creak on the thin wood separating them, imagines the man is leaning into it, aching to touch. "I think, perhaps, if there were more Holy men like him, the world would be full of sinners."

Will whimpers, clenching his jaw.

"I want to touch him, Father," the man says, soft as silk. "I ache for it. I want to peel back his veneer of purity, of sanctity…. I want to taste him."

The noise Will lets out, he's sure, is not entirely human. Ravenous, demonic. "What's your name?" he whispers.

The man sighs, and smiles. "You may call me anything you like. Michael, perhaps, since you have claimed I am an avenging Angel. Or Lucifer."

"Virgil, maybe," Will breathes. "For surely you mean to lead me into Hell."

The man purrs at that, and the wall creaks, and his face is very close to the screen, obscuring what little light there is, thrusting Will into darkness. Will's hand tightens around his cock, he twitches and leaks, and shivers when the man makes a sound of his own – a low snarl, that sinks its teeth into Will's neck and makes him shudder.

"Would you follow me into Hell, Will?" he growls.

"Oh, _God_ ," Will breathes.

"No. Do not cry out for Him. He's not here, with you – I am." The man's voice is lower now, possessive and hard like a knife at Will's neck. He shivers, breathing in deeply, that scent covering him and clogging his throat, drowning his tongue like Sacramental wine. "Call out for me, Will. Hannibal. Say it."

"Hannibal," Will whispers, and his stomach sinks in, his heart giving several heavy thumps behind his ribs, like it wants to fly out into the man's hands. Hannibal, the Conqueror. Seems fitting.

Hannibal is smiling, and he touches the screen, purrs, so close he might as well be whispering into Will's ear like the Devil on his shoulder; "Surrender to it, Will. There is such sweet pleasure in submitting to your nature." Will swallows, tightens his hand around the head of his cock, tugs it harshly, his other hand cupping his balls, ready to spill. "I see it. I might be the only one who does. Surrender." He growls, and the screen creaks under his nails. "Surrender to me."

Will has no choice – that scent, that voice, the sweet image of his kill floods his brain as Will floods his hands, warm and wet, the scent of it heavy in the air. He moans, hand flying to his mouth to cover the sound, and it's the one that is wet and he shivers, legs stretching out in front of him, stomach sunk in, lashes fluttering as the release overwhelms him.

He blinks back to awareness a moment later, grimaces and licks at his lips and fingers, trying to clean his face. But he won't be able to – not even Holy Water can help him now. He breathes out, trembling, and lifts his eyes to see Hannibal staring at him openly.

Hannibal smiles, and rears back, touches his fingers to his lips, and then presses them to the screen in a mockery of the depiction of Christ – two outstretched, the rest curled. Unbidden, Will mimics him, and his come leaves a smear on the screen, the netting meaning he gets a tease of Hannibal's warm fingers, and wets them in turn, spreading his sin.

Hannibal hums, delighted, and Will watches as he kisses his fingers again, licks over them in a move not so much dirty as satisfied, and Will swallows harshly.

"I'll see you next week, Father," he purrs. "And I'll be sure to create a masterpiece for you, so that I can share it with you, in vivid detail."

Will doesn't answer – can't. If he opens his mouth, he will spill wine and honey, blood a darker stain than anything he can produce with just his hand. Hannibal smiles at him, and leaves the booth without another word, and Will sags as he hears the door to the room open and close, and wipes his clean hand over his face.

He doesn't pray, doesn't ask for God's forgiveness. Hannibal asked him many weeks ago if the act of prayer had a point, right before he told Will about his kills for the first time. And Will can't pray anymore without hearing Hannibal's voice, sliding into and merging with his own, until his thoughts are soaked in blood and viscera and righteous fury.

No, he doesn't pray, doesn't call out for God. There's no point.


End file.
